forthedog | There's a point to all this dreaming

Entry tags:

darrow,
neil

There's a point to all this dreaming

The metal clangs under his feet--he realizes after a few seconds of it that the floor isn't solid, it's grated, and under it there are hundreds of massive, turning gears.

They're standing over a giant meat grinder.

The little things with their long knives are swarming at them. He's firing, firing, emptying rounds into the room, but they keep coming, cutting at his legs, knocking him down. He hears a scream, high and wordless and terrified, and he sees Neil's twisted face in the dimness, sees them take him and lift him up, blood running over the metal grating as they carry him away. He's trying to crawl, dragging himself across the floor as beneath him that massive infernal machine grinds and grinds, and he sees another quick, moon-like flash of Neil's face as the knives go to work and Neil is screaming--

He's screaming. Sitting up in bed, the sheets soaked with sweat. Alone.

Quiet.

The window by the bed is open and breeze moves across his bare skin. For a few moments he just sits there in darkness mottled by city lights, trying to breathe normally again. And all he can think, with what little coherence he has at some ungodly hour of the fucking night, is that on a long enough timeframe all dreams might come true.

It takes him another five minutes to come to a decision.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, splashes some water on his face and spares himself a look in the bathroom mirror. He looks pale, hollow-eyed. He looks like what he is, which is a man who hasn't been sleeping well the last two nights. And that, coupled with the city's change before, means that he hasn't gotten decent sleep in about a week.

Fuck this.

He could just go, he thinks. Just head out the door. But that feels a little too much like a month ago, a little too much like something dark and crashing, so instead he heads back into the bedroom, sinks down onto the bed, picks up the cell phone and dials Neil's number.

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"Yeah," he says, looking down into his mug again. He takes a swallow and barely tastes it, but the heat against the back of his throat makes him feel slightly more awake. More real.

"I can't decide if I want him here or not," he says after another minute or so. This time he doesn't look up. "That's fucking awful, right? I mean, I do. But if he didn't remember..." He does look up then, and smiles, hard and crooked. "Think you got enough to deal with, with just me around."

"I want him here," I murmur, scooping batter out onto the pan. Usually, there's something comforting in that sizzle, the warm smell of the batter cooking, but now, all it's doing is making me miss things I'll probably never have again.

"Even if he didn't remember."

"Yeah, well." For a moment something surges up in his throat and it's a little hard to breathe--it blindsides him. All of it. The fact that he's standing in this fucking kitchen.

That he got to be with Tom at all.

He sets his mug down on the counter, reaches out and lays a hand over Neil's shoulderblade. "You always were stronger than me."

His hand's warm, burning through the fabric of my t-shirt and I let out a shuddering breath, eyes welling up with tears, blurring my view of the stove.

"'s got nothin' to do with that," I say, voice hoarse to the point that it hardly sounds like mine.

"You know it does," he says, dropping his hand away again. Every second here feels a little like being skinned alive. It's just a question of degrees. "You could face it. I couldn't. You could face me. I couldn't fucking handle you. Still can't."

He pushes away from the counter and moves over to the single small window, pushing aside the shades. Outside it looks like more heat and haze.

"You trust me. You forgave me. I can't fucking do either for myself." He shoots Neil a faint smile over his shoulder. "And I'm such a great conversationalist."

"I'm pretty sure that's just me bein' fuckin' stupid," I admit with a snort of laughter, feeling suddenly colder when he moves away.

Dashing the back of my wrist across my eyes, I flip the pancakes over, clearing my throat and nodding toward the cabinet closest to him. "You mind grabbing me some plates?"

"Guess we'll see," he says softly, stepping away from the window again and clearing his throat. This is edging into the morbid.

Today--he's not sure he could honestly be happy. But maybe he could edge in that direction.

"Sure." He moves over to the counter and pulls out plates. "Same ones as me." Of course.

Coughing out a laugh, I reach out to take one of the plates from him, scooping up a stack of pancakes onto it to make room on the pan for more batter.

Handing him the bottle of syrup, real maple which was always rare on the island, I say, "They kinda look like a set we had at the bar." Not handmade like those, but the same colors.

He looks more closely at the plates as he takes the syrup from Neil and turns to set it on the kitchen table--they do, he supposes, from the vague flashes he can remember. Memories of the bar are full of odd little scraps of detail. The shine of the wood grain. The hum of a crowd of regulars. Sitting on the deck and smelling afternoon rain.

Fucking Neil in the kitchen, flour and palm oil on his hands. He grits his teeth.

"Be nice to have a place like that here. Have something to fucking do.

"Go ahead, man. Those are gonna get cold," I say to him, watching the pan on the stove so I don't have to look at him.

All I want is to fucking kiss him. It's stupid, but it's true. The fact that I can't seem to do that is driving me fucking crazy.

"Yeah, it would be. Wouldn't be the same, though. Maybe I'll just... do somethin' different. I dunno."

He glances back at Neil again, shrugs and finds forks and knives in one of the drawers, pulls out a chair and sinks down into it. In this close proximity to food, his stomach twists and he realizes just how fucking hungry he is.

When did he last even eat much of anything good? He's not sure. For the last few weeks eating has been just another thing he does to keep moving.

"Nothing's the same. Doesn't mean you couldn't still do it." Look at us.

"Yeah, but... I dunno. I kinda want to do somethin' different," I admit, my back to him but acutely aware of every single move he makes.

"Just don't got a fuckin' clue what."

"Tell you one thing you need to do," he says around a mouthful of pancakes. And then he has to pause and close his eyes, because... Jesus. It's not the best meal he's ever had, but it's real food, and fresh and hot--and it's fucking pathetic, but he can't pretend that its source makes no difference.

"You need to start fighting."

"The fuck are you talkin' 'bout?" I laugh, flipping the next batch over and glancing over my shoulder at him with a grin, forgetting for a moment how fucking hard it is just to look at him.

"You're good with the gun," he says. He's not grinning. It's harder saying this than he'd expected it to be. "But you could be better. And I'd feel better if I knew you could do some damage without it."

He sets the fork down and picks up his coffee again, looking at Neil over the rim of the mug. "This time won't be the last time shit goes to hell around here."

"So, what? Are you gonna teach me?" I ask, my grin falling but only by a fraction. Regardless, I'm not sure I'd turn it down. He's probably right, anyway.

This place isn't safe. I'm not sure the island was, either, we were just better at saying in denial.

"If you'll let me." He sets the mug down again and swipes a hand down his face, not quite looking at Neil anymore.

"It's not just this place. It's me. If I... look, I got no fucking idea why I'd come after you again. But if I ever did, for any stupid fucking reason, I want you to be able to put me down hard enough that I stay down."

"If you're the one teaching me, doesn't that kinda defeat the purpose?" I say, and it's all more than enough to knock the grin off my face.

Stacking the rest of the pancakes on my plate, I turn off the stove and head to the table, putting it down in front of the chair next to his. Standing over him, I only hesitate for a moment before pushing my hand through his hair, half expecting it to be unwanted but not really giving a damn.

"No," he says, his voice catching as Neil touches him. His eyes slip closed and he forces himself to not pull away, feeling both edges of it--the wanting and the danger inherent in the wanting, the side of him that still bristles with violence.

Love is violent. Maybe he understands that better now than he ever did.

He forces his eyes open again. "Can't think of anyone better, actually."

"Any excuse to touch me, huh?" I say with a cough of laughter. Touch me, for reasons other than what we both want.

"Fine, whatever."

I still haven't pulled away. It's like playing chicken with an oncoming train.

"I don't need an excuse," he murmurs, reaches up and curls his fingers around Neil's wrist. That's not what I need. Suddenly everything feels more dangerous. Suddenly the air in the room practically fucking crackles.

He doesn't remember things between them ever being this volatile. Then again, they'd pretty much always had an outlet.

He tugs Neil's hand gently away from him. "Neil. Your food's getting cold."

"I don't fuckin' care, Mike," I breathe, frustration finally seeping into my voice.

I know I should just leave it be. I should stop pushing, but this tiptoeing around each other bullshit is making me crazy.

"I do." His grip tightens, minutely. He should let go. He hasn't. There's something intoxicating about this, about lingering on the edging of keeping control and losing it completely.

And no one is even throwing any punches yet. Jesus fucking Christ, what have I gotten myself into.

"We had a great night. Let's not fucking push it."

"What the fuck makes you think that holding ourselves back is what we need to be doin' right now? One of us is gonna fuckin' snap, at this rate, and we both know what happens when it's you," I point out, glad that I can manage to scowl instead of outright pleading with him.

"I'm not gonna fuck you to make a point," he says. Something very strange is happening: instead of feeling less like the version of him that left the Realm and more like the version of him that died on a beach in a pocket universe--or more like one and less like the other--he's feeling more and more like both at once.

More and more like himself.

"And I'm not gonna fuck you for a safety valve." He releases Neil's hand, still gentle. And his voice is, too, but there's hardness behind it. "I'm not ready. Don't push me, Neil. Please."

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